Not In My Backyard!
by Sior
Summary: Dumbledore has a new plan for protecting Harry. The Death Eaters change their tactics. And Albus and Minerva strike up an acquaintance with the Dursleys!
1. Meet The Neighbours

**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Rowling and the copyright holders. I'm just playing with the characters. I solemnly swear to take good care of them and not let them have too many sweets (though I'll have my work cut out with Albus)  
  
**Note:** This fic is for the AD/MM kiddies. You have been warned!

* * *

**Not In My Back Yard!**  
  
Fit the First: Meet the Neighbours.  
  
Harry Potter pulled the front door closed very quietly. The latch _clicked_ into place. He knew he would get it in the neck from his aunt and uncle if they found out he had been out in the rain. Not because they had any concerns about his health of course, but simply because they couldn't bear the thought that the neighbours might see him doing anything at all unusual.  
  
The weather had been bad all summer. Harry felt it suited his mood quite well. What business had the sun to be shining when a man as good as Sirius Black was no longer around to enjoy it? A stab of anger cut through him at the thought. He didn't bother to wipe his feet, but trudged muddy footprints down the spotless hall.  
  
To his surprise, he heard voices coming from the kitchen. He knew his uncle was not home yet as his car was not in the driveway; and Harry had passed Dudley at the bus shelter, he and his gang were menacing money from 10 year olds. It seemed Aunt Petunia had company.  
  
Trying to make as little noise as possible, Harry crept past the kitchen door heading for the stairs. But he was not quiet enough.  
  
"Is that you, Dudley darling?" called Aunt Petunia's shrill voice. "Come into the kitchen, Angelkins. Mummy wants you to meet our new neighbour."  
  
There was nothing for it. With a sigh of resigned defeat, Harry pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.  
  
His aunt sat at the table, primly sipping tea from a china cup. The look of horror on Petunia's face when her nephew walked into the room would have amused Harry had he not been so used to it. She hurriedly turned to her companion, a dark-haired woman sitting opposite, and offered a hasty explanation for Harry's existence.  
  
"Please excuse the boy. My sister's child, you know. Orphaned in a car accident. _Harry, go and clean yourself up at once!_"  
  
There was a barely concealed venom in his aunt's voice but Harry was not listening. He was gaping in disbelief at their visitor. The woman stared back at him through severe, square framed spectacles.Harry couldn't get his brain to process what was going on. What on earth was his Transfigurations professor doing here in Privet Drive? And why was she having tea with Aunt Petunia?  
  
It was Professor McGonagall who broke the silence. Her lips thinned in disapproval as the boy continued to stare at her in shock.  
  
"Hello... Harry, is it?" she offered him a hand, which he shook bemusedly. "Minerva McGonagall. I've just moved into number 26. I was hoping your cousin could help me move some crates into the house. What _are_ you gaping at, child?"  
  
At the sound of her stern voice, Harry's brain kicked into gear. He noticed for the first time that McGonagall was dressed in Muggle clothes - a sweater and slacks. Her hair was coiled in an elegant twist at the back of her neck. Catching her drift, Harry played along.  
  
"N-nothing. I'll help you if you like, Mrs McGonagall." he offered. He saw his Head of House wince and felt sure he would pay for the 'Mrs' later. He continued hurriedly, "Dudley won't be home for hours"  
  
"He's collecting money for the local primary school" simpered Dudley's deluded mother. Harry was sure he saw McGonagall suppress a smile.Aunt Petunia was about to speak when a knock at the front door interrupted them.  
  
"That will be my husband" said McGonagall.  
  
Harry looked at her blankly. The three made there way into the hall and Petunia opened the door. For the second time in the last ten minutes Harry Potter felt his jaw drop. Standing on the doorstep, in Muggle clothes and with cropped hair and beard, was Albus Dumbledore!  
  
Harry watched in amazed disbelief as his Muggle Aunt and the greatest wizard of the century exchanged pleasantries about the weather. Dumbledore too had boycotted his usual flamboyant wizarding robes. Harry had seen wizards in Muggle clothes before, most notably at the Quidditch world cup. At worst the effect had been ridiculous. But his professors had clearly done their homework. Together they gave the appearance of a rather well-to- do couple, settling down to quiet suburban retirement.  
  
Looking up, he realised that their visitors were getting ready to leave.  
  
"Come along, Mr Potter." called McGonagall.  
  
Instinctively, Harry moved to obey. Aunt Petunia grabbed him roughly by the arm as he passed her by.  
  
"You'd better behave yourself!" she hissed in his ear. "These are nice, respectable people. I don't want them to know about your abnormality. I won't have them hearing anything about...about _your sort!_"  
  
Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was enough to satisfy Petunia. Pushing him to the door she bid her new neighbours goodbye.  
  
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Minerva." she smiled "You too, Mr McGonagall."  
  
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up in surprise but McGonagall's eyes filled with malevolent glee. Without another word they turned and made their way to the gate. Harry followed, his head spinning.  
  
A/N: Stay tuned for Fit the Second, in which Minerva and Albus find a novel approach to sleeping arrangements. Same cat time, same cat channel.  
  
P.S: Hit the review button if you love Minerva McGonagall ; ) 


	2. Settling In

**Disclaimer:** I don't, she does. She didn't, I did.  
  
**A/N:** Okay. First I'd like to say a huge thank you to all those of you who reviewed. Wow! Thirty-four reviews on one chapter. I only hope this story can live up to your expectations.  
This chapter took a lot longer to finish than I anticipated. For that I offer my sincerest apologies and the excuse that it's quite a long chapter. Enjoy  
The last paragraph is especially dedicated to Happy Reader, though I think I liked her version better

* * *

**Not In My Backyard!**

Fit the Second: Settling In  
  
Harry and the two professors remained silent until they had turned the corner, moving away from number four. Once they were out of sight and earshot, McGonagall pulled Harry into a brief one-armed hug. Of all the strange things that had happened today, Harry wondered if this short show of affection from the austere professor was not the most unexpected.  
  
"How are you Harry?" she asked. Dumbeldore too fixed him with a questioning gaze. The younger wizard shrugged.  
  
"'m fine." he muttered, non-commitally.  
  
McGonagall shot him a look, but said nothing more. After a few minutes Harry broached the subject which was preoccupying him.  
  
"Er...professors? Where are we going?"  
  
"We told you Harry" It was Dumbledore who replied. "We have bought number twenty-six"  
  
"But I thought... do you mean... is it for, y'know _the Order_?"  
  
"Hush!" snapped McGonagall. "Wait until we're inside before you mention anything more, for heaven's sake!"  
  
Reluctantly Harry bit back the hundred or so other questions he had. Yet it was a full ten minutes before they reached number twenty-six, at the far end of the street. It seemed to Harry that his teachers were walking painfully slowly, and he found he had to make a conscious effort to match his own pace to theirs.

* * *

When they reached number 26, a moving van stood outside. A young woman with greasy blonde hair and unusually muscular upper arms was unloading crates onto the tarmac of the drive.  
  
"Wotcher, Harry!" she grinned as the three approached. Harry smiled back, recognising Tonks's characteristic greeting. Before he could say anything however, Mrs-number- 22 came by, walking her prize poodle. By the time the pair had passed, Tonks had finished unloading and was starting the van up to leave.  
  
"See ya, Harry" She waved before pulling out of the drive. Harry watched her go, wincing occasionally as she swerved to avoid hitting a lamp- post or a telegraph pole.  
  
"Well come along. Best get this stuff inside." said McGonagall. She moved to begin, but was stopped by Dumbledore's restraining arm on her shoulder.  
  
"I believe Harry and I can handle this, Minerva" his voice was light, but authoritative. Harry could sense the tension between his two professors. McGonagall's lips were thin and her nostrils flared, but Dumbledore's face remained firm and impassive. Harry got the feeling they were replaying an old argument for which neither needed the other to speak aloud. When McGonagall finally broke the silence it was clear that the headmaster had won.  
  
"Fine! I'll go and see if I can't do something about getting us some tea."  
  
With that she swept into the house. Dumbledore rolled his eyes and cast Harry a theatrically exasperated look. Despite himself, Harry found himself smiling in return.

* * *

It took less time than he had anticipated for them to move the packing crates into the house. Not for the first time, Harry noticed that his headmaster was stronger than he appeared. Neither spoke much as they completed their task. Harry couldn't decide whether he was still angry at his mentor. The memories of last year still hurt, but mostly he just felt awkward.  
  
As they dropped the last box down in the front hall, Dumbledore turned to him.  
  
"You're shivering, Harry."  
  
Harry noticed for the first time that his clothes were still damp from his walk in the rain.  
  
"Er... yeah. Guess it's a bit cold"  
  
Reaching into a crate, apparently at random, Dumbledore produced a fluffy purple towel.  
  
"The bathroom is on the second floor. Third on the left, I believe"  
  
"Couldn't you just..."  
  
"I'm afraid not, dear boy. We cannot use magic here."  
  
Harry knew better than to expect a more detailed explanation. The thought was not a pleasant one.

* * *

Coming back downstairs, Harry caught the tail end of an argument.  
  
"Oh for heaven's sake, Albus! What does it matter? It's your own fault for not deciding on an alias."  
  
Following the sound of McGonagall's voice, he found himself in a warm, but sparsely furnished kitchen. McGonagall sat on a stool at the built in counter, while Dumbledore paced before the fireplace. Dumbledore looked up as he walked in.  
  
"Well, Minerva. If you are quite settled in, I shall leave you to it."  
  
"Won't you stay for tea, Albus?"  
  
"My dear lady, nothing would please me more. But, alas, I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. Farewell Harry. Adieu"  
  
He bowed so low that his beard swept the floor, then with a little hop he stepped backward into the fireplace. And with that, he was gone in a swirl of green flame.  
  
"Barmy old codger." McGonagall muttered affectionately.  
  
Harry made no reply, but simply frowned at the spot where Dumbledore had stood. Sweeping past him, Professor McGonagall inspected the kettle which stood on the countertop. After a few moments scrutiny, she filled it, plugged it in and, after another minute's thought, flipped the switch. She gave a satisfied nod as the kettle began to boil.  
  
"Well don't just stand about, Mr Potter. Go find some cups."  
  
Doing as he was told, Harry began rooting through the boxes until he found one containing delf. He saw that McGonagall had found some sugar and tea leaves, but there was no milk.  
  
"Professor McGonagall?" he asked, blowing on his tea to cool it. "Not to be rude or anything, but what are you doing here?"  
  
"The house came up for sale." she said simply. "The Order felt it was too good an opportunity to miss"  
  
"Will the Order be using it as their new headquarters now that..." he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. McGonagall's face softened.  
  
"No, Harry. The order are still at Grimuald place. But Albus felt - we _all _felt that perhaps you would rather not go back there this summer."  
  
Harry nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. He angrily dashed the tears from his eyes as McGonagall busied herself about a plate of biscuits.  
  
"Will the order be taking it in turns to spy on me?" he asked, more harshly than he meant.  
  
"No" she replied. "Just me. Though I'm sure Miss Ganger, and perhaps even Mr Weasley could make a few _discrete _visits. They're quite anxious to see you, you know." Harry felt his heart lighten at the thought of seeing his best friends.  
  
"So, why are _you _the one they sent here?" he asked without thinking. "Er, sorry. I meant -"  
  
"Perhaps the Order thought my sunny disposition was most likely to win over your aunt and uncle" she suggested drily. Harry looked at her in disbelief. She sighed. "But more likely, Albus wants to give me the illusion of being helpful. I'm not exactly the most _active _member of the order at the moment"  
With a pang of guilt Harry realised why Dumbledore had not allowed McGonagall to lift the crates; and why they had walked so slowly on their way over.  
  
"How are you feeling, professor?" he asked, awkwardly.  
  
"Fine." she said and then added: "Better than that Umbridge woman will be if I ever lay eyes on her again.

* * *

They sat in silence a few moments, Harry feeling more than a little uncomfortable in this unfamiliar situation. It was difficult to think of teachers as people outside of the classroom, he realised.  
Suddenly he remembered something else.  
  
"Professor? Why did you make the tea by hand? Dumbledore said not to use magic here, but I mean, the Decree against underage magic doesn't apply to you or him"

McGonagall laughed, a sound which caught Harry by surprise.  
  
"No, I'll dare say it doesn't" She refilled his cup and passed him another biscuit before continuing.  
  
"Truth be told, I know as much about it as you do Harry. Some sort of new protection spell of the headmaster's, I shouldn't wonder. He won't tell me anymore, but I gave up trying to get information out of Albus Dumbledore years ago. It's like getting facts from a centaur, if he has it in his mind not to tell you."  
  
"Yeah" Harry replied. Something in his tone must have caught McGonagall's attention as she turned to look at him with a piercing gaze.  
  
"Talk to him, Harry. You'll need him before this game has been played out." And there it was. Harry wanted to shout, to tell her that it wasn't up to him to sort things out. It was all Dumbledore's fault, why couldn't she see that? But she continued to look at him with that familiar glare which brooked no disagreement.  
  
"Yes, professor" he replied.  
  
With a curt nod, McGonagall took his cup and moved to the sink to wash it clean. Harry saw her instinctively reach for her wand, then with a sigh of frustration she strode out to the hall, returning with a dishcloth.  
  
"How Muggles manage this everyday I'll never know"  
  
"You're doing okay so far, Professor" Harry commented sincerely, thinking about how Mr Weasley might have tried to use the kettle. McGonagall flashed him a small smile  
  
"Thank you Harry" Her smile vanished to be replaced with a small frown."This one, however" she said, gesturing towards the vacuum cleaner, "you're going to have to explain to me"

* * *

Later that night, Minerva McGonagall lay curled on the couch, reading. A flash of green light from the fireplace caught her attention. She looked up in surprise to see Albus standing in front of her.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore!" She sat up and pulled her tartan dressing gown more closely about her slight frame. "Is something wrong?" He grinned at her, those blue eyes twinkling in that familiar way. Instead of replying he sat next to her and took the book from her unresisting fingers.  
  
"Translinear Arithmancy and Cuspodia's Theorem? Really Tabby, sometimes you provide me with too much ammunition." Minerva snatched the book back and glared at her dearest friend.  
  
"Did you come her for a reason or just for a spot of cat-baiting?"  
  
"Actually, I came to make sure those Muggles weren't corrupting you. One never know's what to expect from _their_ sort." She looked at him sceptically.  
  
"Alright" he admitted. "Fred and George Weasley played a rather amusing trick on Moody which ended in young Ginny being transfigured into a very pretty squirrell. Entertaining as ever, of course, but it is a little difficult to hear oneself think over Molly's gentle reprimands. And then when Mrs Black awoke and wondered what all the fuss was about..."  
  
"So you decided to escape"  
  
"Yes"  
  
"By coming here"  
  
"Yes"  
  
"To stay with me"  
  
"Indeed." his eyes sparkled.  
  
"In an unfurnished Muggle house.  
  
"Yes"  
  
"With only one bed"  
  
"Ah."  
  
Cleary such an objection had not occurred to him. He looked almost crestfallen. Despite herself, Minerva felt her heartbeat quicken. He wanted to stay with her. He was here to spend time with her.  
She looked over at this man to whom she had, effectively, dedicated most of her life - in service and friendship. On impulse she blurted out a reply.  
  
"Don't go Albus!... I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement."  
  
"I don't wish to intrude"  
  
"You're not" she flashed him one of her very rare smiles. "In fact, I think I'd rather like the company."

* * *

Whether or not Albus Dumbledore had ever imagined sharing a bed with Minerva McGonagall was a secret he would keep to himself. However, if he had ever thought about it, it is quite certain he would not have imagined it like this.  
  
"Are you sure you are quite comfortable, Minerva?" he asked, glancing over at her pillow.  
  
Minerva's only response was to purr quietly, and wrap her tail more tightly about her body.

* * *

Sorry, I know that probably wasn't the ending you were hoping for. (Patience, patience) While we wait for me to finish chapter 3, why not review and tell me just how annoyed you are (


	3. Mending Fences

**Disclaimer: **I am but a humble kleptomaniac. All hail Queen Rowling!  
  
**A/N:** This is dedicated to Mugglemin, one very classy AD/MM shipper. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write. I'd say it won't happen again, but it would probably be a lie. Here it is, chapter 3. Please let me know what you think.  
-Edited for embarrassing typos. Thanks, Angharad.

* * *

**Not In My Backyard.  
**  
**Fit the third: Mending Fences.**  
  
The early morning sunlight streaming through the window woke Albus Dumbledore. He took a deep breath and rolled over on his pillow. Something tickled his nose.  
Opening his eyes, he saw that Minerva had returned to human form at some point during the night. She was lying with her back to him and her long black hair was fanned out over her own pillow and part of his. He lay there for a few moments just looking at her, and noticed how the sunlight broke into rainbows as it glinted off her hair.  
He let his thoughts wander as he continued to watch her. Gradually a frown of puzzlement appeared on his face.  
"Minerva?"  
"Mm-hmm?" came the sleepy reply.  
"You know that Muggles have no real equivalent to a levitation charm?"  
"Mm-hmm."  
"How do they make lemon drops?"  
_"What?"_  
"Well, lemon drops are quite spherical you see. But how do they make them so, if they must leave them on a surface to set?"  
"Go back to sleep, Headmaster!"

* * *

The sun was already high overhead and poking feebly through a veil of dull cloud as Harry Potter knocked on his professors' front door. There was no answer, but the door swung open beneath his touch. Cautiously he stepped inside and peered down the corridor for any signs of life. There was faint music coming from the kitchen. As he drew closer, an exaggeratedly cheerful voice cut through the synthesised beat and he realised it was the radio that he was hearing.

_#And that was this weeks number 12 from PJ and Duncan, "Stuck On U", to get you all in the summer spirit!!#  
_  
Harry entered the kitchen to find Dumbledore sitting at the table, a vaguely stricken look on his face. All his attention seemed to be focussed on a small Muggle radio perched on the windowsill at the far side of the room. McGonagall was nowhere to be seen.

"So this would be what young Muggles are listening to now, Harry?" he enquired, without the preamble of a more formal greeting.

"Some of them," Harry replied, feeling somewhat wrong-footed.

"I see. I must confess, I rather hoped the young chap had made a mistake."

"Would you like me to change the station, professor?" Harry asked, crossing the room. Dumbledore seemed to consider this deeply for a moment and Harry had a sudden feeling that operating Muggle artefacts probably posed no challenge to the innocuous old man sitting before him.

"Yes. Why not" said Dumbledore Harry twirled the dial for a moment, finally coming to rest on a classical radio station. Dumbledore sighed happily.

"Ah. Brahms!" he smiled. "How Minerva detests him. No, no, Harry - leave it on"

"Excuse me, professor, but where _is_ Professor McGonagall?" Harry asked. He was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy again. Dumbledore's face grew grave and his gaze flickered to the corner where a walking stick lay propped against a chair.

"Mrs Figg is giving her the grand tour of your neighbourhood." he explained. "Sit down, Harry" Reluctantly Harry slid into the chair opposite the headmaster's. He studied the veins of wood in the tabletop and idly traced the grooves with his fingertips. Feeling a need to break the silence he asked the first thing that came into his head

"Will she be okay?" Dumbledore smiled at the question and looked intently at Harry over the top of his glasses.

"Of course." he replied. "She is strong, and the strong will always find a way to heal, Harry. It just takes time." Harry met his gaze and nodded, mutely.

"Time" continued Dumbledore "and a little help from one's friends" He beamed at his young protégé, and waved his arms expansively. "_The Beatles_, Harry. Now _that_ was Muggle music to be proud of!"

Harry Potter grinned.

* * *

The sound of the front door opening interrupted Dumbledore's rhapsody on Muggle music. A brisk summer breeze blew into the kitchen, bringing Mrs Figg and Professor McGonagall with it. Dumbledore stood and held a chair for McGonagall while Mrs Figg, with happy disregard for formal social niceties, began putting away the few groceries that the two witches had bought. This done, she put the kettle on, sat down and launched into cheerful conversation. They chatted about minor happenings in the wizarding world and Mrs Figgs shared all the local gossip, turning now and again to Harry for verification. Dumbledore listened and responded with polite interest. About an hour passed in meaningless chitchat until Harry found an opening to excuse himself. He was lost in thought as he walked the short distance back to his aunt and uncle's house. To the keen-eyed casual observer it might seem that his step was just a little lighter than it had been before.  
  
It was quite a lot later when Arabella Figg decided it was time for her to head home. She was loathe to give up the rare opportunity for company from the wizarding world, but in good conscience she could not leave her darling cats to fend for themselves any longer. After another half-hour's protracted goodbye, she shuffled back out into the evening air. McGonagall and Dumbledore were once again left alone.  
  
Minerva closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair.

"Listen to that, Albus"

"I don't hear anything" he replied. It was true. Minerva had turned off the radio in irritation shortly after returning to the house. Everything was silent.

"Exactly!" she smiled in satisfaction.

Dumbledore looked at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Someone less familiar with this woman would probably have missed the unaccustomed tightness about her mouth and the extra tension in her shoulders. After all, Minerva was a rather tightly wound person at the best of times. His gaze rested on her face and he looked into those extraordinary, deep, dark eyes. "Stop that!" she snapped.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently.

"Albus Dumbledore, we have known each other for forty years; what possible new insight can be gained from - rummaging about inside my head?"

"I was not rum-"

"You _are_, Albus. I can _feel _you doing it!"

He chuckled and sat back, breaking eye contact.

"Alright, professor. No leglimency. But now you must answer me truthfully: how are you feeling?" For a moment, the Transfiguration Professor made no reply. Then she gave a little sigh and shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps I overdid things a little today," she admitted, then added; "It's nothing I can't handle, mind! I'll be fine with a little rest."

Albus removed his glasses, lay them aside, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he rose and walked past her to the narrow kitchen bench.

"Come, Minerva" Once she was sitting beside him, he laid a gentle hand on each of her shoulders. McGonagall smiled gratefully as the ache which had been gripping her back ebbed away. As she felt herself begin to relax against him, she pulled away. They sat a few moments in familiar, companionable silence.

"You'd better be getting back." Minerva pointed out, somewhat reluctantly. He shook his head. "I think I'll stay a few moments longer, just in case our visitors wish to come inside." he said. The doorbell rang and McGonagall's look of confusion changed to one of mingled respect and exasperation. She left to answer the door. Dumbledore remained sitting and waited patiently, listening to the faint conversation his deputy was having with the man and woman who had arrived. When she returned to the kitchen she was alone, but her face was uncustomarily pale.

"Tomorrow" she informed him weakly "We are having dinner with the Dursleys".

* * *

She resumed her seat and Albus absentmindedly patted the back of her hand as they both silently contemplated the prospect of this social engagement. It seemed pretty bleak.

"They'll be missing you", she offered finally. He nodded.

"Will you-" he began.

"I'll be quite alright, thank you." she replied crisply. "I suppose you'll- "

"Of course, wouldn't miss it for the world. But for now I had better-"

"Yes you had. Albus, be-"

"I will" He rose, keeping her hand in his, and then kissed it with exaggerated flourish. Once again, he headed for the fireplace - but then stopped abruptly. The headmaster frowned slightly and turned back to his friend, who had picked up her book.

"Minerva, have you seen -?"

"They're on the table."

"No they're not"

"Try under the newspaper."

"They aren't there."

"Perhaps they've fallen, then."

"It's alright, I found them. They were under the newspaper."

* * *

**A few endnotes. **

**1**. I initially thought that Albus would like the Muggle music, but then I did a little research and found out what would have been in the British charts that week. Alas, for the dark times my generation has lived through! Surely even Dumbledore's taste isn't _that_ broad!  
  
**2**. I realise that it's terribly cliché to have the women do the shopping. My only defense is that Albus was busy talking to Harry and I just _couldn't _let them drink another cup of tea until I was sure they had some milk.  
  
**3.** Please review and let me know what you think. And stay tuned for the next chapter : Dinner With The Dursleys. (Poor Minerva.)


	4. Dinner At The Dursleys'

**Disclaimer: **The same disclaimer as before naturally still applies.

**A/N: **It seems being bedridden with a cold for Christmas was the cure for a writer's block which I'd almost given up hope of ever breaking through. So, without further ado, I give you 'Dinner at the Dursleys''. And I _finally_ get to introduce you to Eddie.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Four:**

**Dinner at the Dursleys'**

Miles away from the quiet Muggle suburbia of Privet Drive, Edmund Shreik was pacing back and forth beneath an open window. Even the most casual observer would probably deduce that the young man was nervous as he strode the narrow walk. Each time he reached the trellis rose at the far side of the window he plucked a petal, tore it neatly in two and let both halves fall to the ground before beginning the process all over again. The gravel at his feet was already strewn with tattered pink blossoms. They clung too to the black robes he wore, which were chosen for aesthetic rather than practical purposes. They were too heavy even for the early morning sun of an unusually inclement summer, and the boyish blond curls on his forehead were darkened and flattened with sweat. All in all, this morning Edmund was feeling far from relaxed.

He was beginning his short circuit for perhaps the hundredth time when a sudden sound at the window grabbed his attention. He looked up at once, and his eyes shone with near manic eagerness.

"_Did you get it?" _he asked in an agitated whisper.

A figure sprang clear of the window and revealed itself to be another young man of about Edmund's age, though taller and stockier in build. He held up a canvass bag and grinned. Edmund snatched it from him and looked inside then returned the smile.

"Well done, John! Everything is finally coming together."

"Are we really going to go through with this, Eddie?" the other asked.

"We haven't come this far to give up now!" was the emphatic reply.

"But the house has been sold already! That wasn't part of the plan."

"Helga and Soren have been watching the house. It's just some old Muggle couple. If they get in the way, we'll exterminate them. They're not important"

"I hope you're right about this."

"Trust me, my friend. When have I ever steered you wrong?"

* * *

Petunia Dursley carefully placed the final salad fork on the kitchen table and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from the tablecloth. She had set out the best china. It always did to impress new neighbours - _one never knew._ She pursed her lips and frowned as she heard a tread on the stair; Harry would have to dine with them now that the McGonagalls had seen the boy. The thought put a dampener on Petunia's spirits and she was only slightly cheered up by the sudden remembrance that her dinner service was twice as expensive as Mrs. Smithson's two doors down.

Vernon Dursley entered the kitchen ruffling his newspaper. He was dressed in his most intimidating blue suit. The shirt was cut too tightly at the neck and an unseemly roll of flesh bulged over the collar.

"Where's Dudders?" he asked.

"He's out and about with his little friends," said his wife.

"Terrorising the neighbourhood, eh?" he laughed jovially. Nothing pleased Vernon Dursley more than the prospect of dominating a new audience, so tonight he was in a very good mood. All things considered, the Dursleys were looking forward to an enjoyable evening of posturing and posing, despite the unwelcome evil of having to have Harry at the table.

* * *

It was eight o'clock when the six of them sat down to dinner, some with more sanguine hopes for the evening than others. At first, they simply exchanged pleasantries about Petunia's soup and the unseasonable weather. Eventually however, Dursley turned the conversation to a more personal topic.

"So, Petunia tells me you were a school teacher, McGonagall" he said, addressing the question to Dumbledore.

"Headmaster," Albus corrected calmly, "At a small public school in Scotland"

Dursley nodded importantly.

"Public schools are the only way to go. That's why we sent Dudley to Smeltings. Can't let just any dunderheads in, right Dudders?"

But Dudley's soup required all his concentration, and so Vernon had to continue the conversation unaided.

"And what about you, Minerva?" he asked.

"Oh, Minerva gave up work once we got married," replied Albus, not allowing her time to speak "She stayed home and kept house"

Dumbledore seemed oblivious to the death glare McGonagall shot his way. Petunia was nodding approvingly. Harry quickly wiped his mouth with his napkin to cover a grin. Dursley continued talking to Dumbledore, hardly listening to the answer.

"Must be strange not working anymore. Can't imagine it m'self. Mind you, don't know how Grunnings would survive with out me - crowd of incompetents the lot of them," declared Vernon.

"Well, at his age, Albus just couldn't keep up with the students anymore," interjected McGonagall vindictively. "Poor thing" she added, for good measure.

"Of course not all young chaps are intelligent and well-behaved," agreed Dursley with a meaningful look at his nephew. "Ruffians, some of them"

Seeing this, Dumbledore gave Harry a conspiratorial wink. Vernon had applied himself to his main course and didn't notice.

"Have you any children, Minerva?" asked Petunia.

McGonagall was about to respond in the negative, but again Dumbledore beat her to it.

"Yes" he lied effortlessly. "Our son Aubrey is a barrister and our daughter Lydia just graduated from medical school. You can imagine how proud we are of them both."

Harry looked at each person around the table. Dumbledore looked perfectly sincere, apart, perhaps, from a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Vernon seemed a little deflated, having no way of trumping this. Petunia just sniffed in disapproval of young female doctors; but Professor McGonagall met Harry's gaze with such a look of helpless disbelief that he almost choked on his potatoes.

* * *

Dinner progressed far better than might have been expected. Dumbledore listened politely as Dursley waxed lyrical on business, the economy and the state of the country in general. His replies were easy and often entirely invented. McGonagall spoke less but managed to bite back more than one sarcastic reply to Petunia's simpering platitudes on motherhood and domestic life, and - despite her best intentions - she found herself listening with interest to the juicier local gossip. Between them, the two professors made sure to steer the conversation away from any possible mention of Harry and his faults.

Things went smoothly until dessert, when a sudden crash outside the window caused Petunia to jump in alarm, the trifle slipping from her fingers. Dudley, who had remarkably quick reflexes in certain situations, caught the dessert before it could come to any harm.

"What was it, Vernon?!" Petunia cried

Dursley rose from his seat and peered out into the gloom.

"Hmph! One of that Figg woman's blasted cats. Can't abide cats. Filthy, devious creatures, eh McGonagall?"

For a moment, Harry thought Professor McGonagall had turned to stone, so still she sat. The only indication of life was a nerve twitching in her cheek. But Dumbledore came to the rescue.

"Actually, I've always thought them rather elegant." He replied simply, and the topic was thankfully dropped, though a part of Harry couldn't help feeling that he'd been robbed of the best show of the evening.

* * *

It was almost eleven when the two Hogwarts professors made their goodbyes. Dusk had long since settled in on Privet Drive.

"Well, that was an exercise in misery!" declared Minerva as soon as she was sure she was out of earshot.

"It wasn't that bad was it? The food was good, and Harry seemed to enjoy himself. Besides, you managed to get through the night without speaking more than a dozen times."

"Well, '_If you can't say something nice…' _was a favourite adage of my mother's. But don't think I've forgotten your teasing!" she warned, "And where, pray tell, did we acquire Aubrey and Linda?"

"_Lydia_." he corrected, "For shame, Minerva. Can't you remember your own daughter's name?"

McGonagall threw her hands up in exasperation and stalked away, ignoring the sharp pain in her lungs. Dumbledore hurried to catch up and placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"I'm sorry, Professor." he said sincerely, "It seemed amusing at the time."

It was impossible to stay angry with him when he looked at her like that. With a small smile, she relented, and sat on the wall for a moment to regain her breath. She was about to interrogate him further about their newly acquired family when realisation struck her and she looked about sadly.

"What's wrong, Minerva?" Albus asked in concern.

"Do you remember the last time we were here?" she asked, "I half expect Hagrid to show up on Sirius Black's motorcycle."

Perhaps it was the strange shadows cast by the moonlight, but Minerva, always so strong and fierce, looked suddenly vulnerable. Albus was seized with a feeling of protectiveness. Invented children were fun for teasing the Dursleys, but he knew that Minerva had some true feelings of a mother when she thought of each of the children whom she had taught and watched over through the years. He understood her feelings only too well. It was agonising to think of the promising young witches and wizards who had been, and who would be, cut down on _both _sides of a pointless war.

"Albus, I'm not sure I can go through this again," she whispered hoarsely.

"And yet we must" he replied softly. He sat beside her and pulled her close. They sat there some time in quiet thought. "Come." he said at last, "Allow me the honour of walking you home".

Side by side, they strolled along the footpath of the empty Muggle estate. It was with great reluctance that Dumbledore bid his deputy goodnight at the front door and apparated back to London that night.

* * *


	5. New Kids on the Block

**Disclaimer: **I borrowed without asking, I have no permission.

_**A/N**: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. _

_The next instalment, rewritten again and again and again and again. I solemnly swear to do my best to have the rest of this up before next Friday._

**

* * *

Fit the Fifth: New Kids on the Block**

"I don't get it. It worked fine when we tried it on Ginny."

"Yeah, but she's got red hair already hasn't she?"

In the living room of number ten, Grimmuald Place, Fred and George Weasley sat gazing sadly at the small pink squirrel on the table in front of them.

"Guess it's back to the drawing board," said Fred glumly. "Thanks anyway, Tonks."

The squirrel gave them a look of deep rodent sympathy and wrinkled its nose. Its hair at once became a deep mahogany.

In an armchair at the far side of the living room, Dumbledore watched, amused, from beneath heavily lidded eyes. His attention was equally divided between the experiments of the Weasley twins and the whispered argument going on between their brother and Hermione Granger in a quiet corner by the dresser.

"_We can at least ask him if Harry's getting our letters!"_

"_Hermione, he'd have told us if he wasn't. Leave it be."_

"_How can you say that? He's your best friend, Ron!"_

"_Look , don't start that again, alright? Mum reckons Dumbledore'll let him come to ours for his birthday. Give him time."_

"_But it's not right for him to bottle all this up. Look what happened last year!"_

"_Well go on then! _You_ ask him if you're so keen."_

Dumbledore saw her rise and begin to make her way towards him. However, as she passed the door it swung open and she almost collided with the man who entered. There was a flurry of motion, and suddenly Hermione froze. Alastor Moody's wand was at her throat.

"There are no Death Eaters in here, Alastor," said Dumbledore sternly.

Moody didn't even look embarrassed as he slowly lowered his wand and watched Hermione walk quickly back to join Ron. The ex-auror then made his way towards Dumbledore's chair and began without préamble.

"We've picked up Shreik's trail again at last. Seems he was responsible for a break-in in Essex yesterday morning."

"Yesterday morning? Why didn't hear of this sooner, Alastor?" asked Dumbledore.

Moody grimaced. "Well, it wasn't quite the move we were expecting. Target was a Muggle house."

"A Muggle house?" Dumbledore frowned as he considered this. " Do you know what's been taken?"

"Not yet," spat Moody in evident annoyance. "The Muggles were away last night and haven't even discovered the break-in yet." It was clear from his tone that he considered this hindrance a deliberate personal affront.

Dumbledore's face betrayed nothing. "You have them under surveillance?"

The other man nodded. "Shacklebolt's 'casually observing' them at the moment." Here Moody paused. "I want your permission to have him arrest them," he said suddenly.

"No, Alastor. They've done nothing."

"They plan to join You Know Who. They've made there choice, now lets bring them down before they do damage to better people."

"They're hardly more than children, Alastor; playing at war. There's still a chance they'll choose differently when it comes to it."

Moody ground his teeth but nodded agreement. He slumped down in the chair opposite the headmaster's and took a long draught from his hipflask. "Well, they seem incompetent at any rate. Not likely to cause too much damage so long as we have them in our sights."

Albus smiled lightly and rose to leave. "Send word as soon as you know what Edmund and his friends have taken," he instructed.

"You'll know as soon as I do."

Dumbledore made his way across the room to the door. Pausing by the table he whispered quietly _"I think perhaps ground mandrake leaves may be the key." _Then he left, passing Molly Weasley in the corridor with an innocent smile.

_

* * *

Tap. Tap. Tap._

In a parlour some miles west of Essex, three young wizards and a witch waited in tense silence. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the window to shut out the sun, and the attention of all four was focussed on the one source of light in the dimness of the room. It came from the tip of Jolian Drodry's wand as he knelt on the floor, reading from a large book and muttering under his breath.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

At the far side of the room from the others, Eddie paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, watching his cousin's progress. At each sweep he tapped the candlesticks on either end of the mantle, and then the small copper box that held the floo powder.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The others made no complaint. They were used to it. As far as they were concerned, this was a _good_ day for Eddie. At least he hadn't started on the silverware. Finally, Jolian sat back and sighed.

"It's no use," he said. "It would take weeks. The Muggle way is the only practical course."

Barely visible in the darkness, Eddie's face contorted into a grimace. The witch, Helga, inhaled sharply through her teeth.

"Muggles are inferior!" she snapped automatically.

"What are you saying, John?" asked Eddie in his soft, refined voice. "We use magic. That's the whole point. It's how we win. It's _why _we win."

"Look," said Jolian, levelly. "This thing," he gesticulated towards the small black box on the table beside him, "is Muggle-made. We'll be using it in a Muggle house. It works well enough on their own power source. There's no _point_ mucking around with spells when the thing already works."

"Are you willing to stand before the Dark Lord and plead worthiness while steeping yourself in idiot Muggle practices?" sneered Helga.

"Are you willing to see somebody else bring the boy to him first?" countered Jolian.

"What I don't get is why we don't just grab him," growled Søren, the only one who had not yet spoken. Broad and muscular, Søren was never one to grapple with the intricacies of any situation. Jolian rolled his eyes and began tidying away his books. It was Eddie who answered the question.

"Do you think so little of the abilities of the Dark Lord, brother? If it were as simple as just grabbing him then He would have finished him off long ago! The Dark Lord is greater than you can ever know!" Eddie's face had taken on the reverent sheen he always wore when speaking of Lord Voldemort. "_He_ has overlooked nothing! That we might be worthy to join Him…"

Søren was not, Jolian reflected, a deep intellectual philosopher. He liked violence, and abhorred Muggles, noble qualities in Drodry's eyes, but his education had lacked, perhaps, a certain subtlety of manners. It was for this reason that the Dane's next question came as no surprise to him.

"If he's so clever, why hasn't _he _thought of this"

Eddie flinched and wavered. It took him a moment to frame his reply, but when he spoke his tone was level and convincing.

"The Dark Lord is pure of Muggle contamination," he said at last. "It is only the lowly like us who think of such methods as these. Besides, he has greater things to think about than the Potter boy."

This was enough to silence Søren, and they returned their attention to the collection of artefacts surrounding Jolian on the floor.

"So, how does it work then?" asked Helga. Her name, in fact, was not Helga at all. When they had met her she had been introduced as Sophia, but Eddie had called her Helga, and words Eddie used tended to stick. That's why they were all here, wasn't it?

"We took this from a Muggle house yesterday," Jolian told the others casually. "They call it a 'projector'. It's a crude and ridiculous method of showing each other their crude and ridiculous photographs. Watch."

He flicked a switch on the battery pack that he had connected to the projector. The ammetre wobbled as the background magic in the house interfered with the power, but the projector came slowly to life. Jolian made some minor adjustments, and it began to emit a bright light. A picture of a Muggle family on holiday appeared on the wall by the door. The others sniggered as they saw the crude additions Jolian had made to the picture with his quill. He switched the projector off again and the image disappeared.

"So how does it work?" repeated Helga. Drodry shrugged. He knew better than to go into detail on Muggle methods in present company. Since boyhood it had amused Jolian to use their own artefacts against them - redesigned, of course, with magical _improvements. _However, many of his friends barely tolerated the means he used to his ends, and so he explained in the shortest terms he could manage.

"Basically, whatever's here," he pointed to the tray of slides, "ends up over there" he gesticulated to the wall.

"And how will that help us?"

"I've integrated a switching charm," he explained. "Watch this!"

He pointed the projector at a crystal vase which stood on the sideboard. Then he removed the slide tray from the projector and moved to stand in front of the light source himself. Bending down he switched back on the power. The shutter clicked and a bright light filled the room. When it died away, the vase stood where Jolian had been. On the dresser, Jolian rose to his feet and did a little dance of victory looking down upon them all.

Helga looked deeply unimpressed. Eddie looked dubious. Søren was looking at the vase in confusion.

"All that effort just to apparate?" asked Helga in disgust.

"Not apparate," said Jolian impatiently. "_Switch! _Apparation won't work where Potter is, but this lets us use switching magic instead. And over long, long distances. We won't need to use apparition magic, do you see? All the wards in the world won't make a difference if we use a switching spell! I'm sure of it."

Helga looked unconvinced but Eddie broke across her as she opened her mouth to argue.

"Show me how it works, John."

"It's simple." Jolian promised. "Plug it in, set it up, flip the switch. All you need is direct line of sight. And a target, of course."

"There's a dresser beside the bed. You can see it from the window." Søren offered.

"We'll do it tonight," said Eddie with a grin.

* * *

By nine o'clock, Minerva McGonagall had already been up and in a foul mood for several hours. Her sleep had been fitful, the pain in her back waking her every few hours. She had risen early, but a long walk and several discretely cast charms hadn't helped. Now she was back in the house and the pain had dulled to a constant ache which she could tell had settled in for the long haul.

Trying to push the pain to the back of her mind, Minerva sat back in the wooden-backed kitchen chair and turned her attention to the pile of paperwork in front of her. Hogwarts had been without its headmaster for months, and his replacement - '_usurper'_, Minerva thought spitefully- had made a mockery of the systems of administration which had been in place for years. McGonagall was already behind on her paperwork thanks to the attack, and then there were the exams to be corrected and the letters to be sent out. To top it all off the ministry was dragging its feet on the matter of the educational decrees. All in all, the Hogwarts paperwork for the last academic year had become an beauracratic Gordian knot. With a weary sigh, she set about trying to untangle it. After all, she had the time.

Lunchtime rolled round and still she had only scratched the surface. The letters for next year were ready to be sent, and her first and second years' papers were marked and graded. There were some clashes with the fifth year timetable which she would need to sort out with Professor Vector and she hadn't even begun to tackle the pile of pink parchment left by that _odious_ woman (her temper would allow her call her nothing else.)

The ache in her back had redoubled its efforts and was launching an attack on her head. With a growl of frustration she shoved back her chair and stormed towards the door to the back garden.

"Oh dear," came a gentle voice from the direction of the fireplace. "Is it really that bad?"

Turning around Minerva was unsurprised to see Albus Dumbledore's tall frame unfolding from the hearth. She frowned blackly as she returned to the table and picked a sheet at random from Umbridge's pile of notes.

"Paid to Argus Filch the sum of 20 galleons for necessary school maintainance. Signed D J Umbridge, Headmistress, High Inquisitor and Chief Undersecretary to the Minister, " she read aloud. "No date! No details! No system! They're all like that!"

"May I?" Dumbledore asked, reaching out a hand and taking the parchment from his deputy. He scrutinised it for a moment, then bent it in half. He folded the parchment into a perfect chrysanthemum which he then tossed into the low-burning fire where it was promptly incinerated. "Problem solved." He reached for another piece of parchment.

McGonagall rolled her eyes in exasperation and batted his hand away. "You just get on with saving the world and leave the paperwork to me," she said.

Dumbledore opened his arms theatrically and lowered his head in acquiescence. "As you wish. The Incendio system has long been a favourite filing method of mine, however."

"I know it has," Minerva replied, smiling despite herself. "Why do you think I don't let you deal with the minutiae anymore?" She took her seat again opposite him, trying hard not to allow her discomfort to show.

Dumbledore pulled a small vial from his robes. "By the way, I stopped by Hogwarts earlier today and Poppy asked me how you were. I mentioned you'd had some discomfort, and she asked me to pass this along." He handed her the potion.

McGonagall regarded it for a moment, then unstoppered it and took a sip. A feeling of warmth spread along her spine and across her shoulders, and the ache receded. It was replaced by a deep feeling of gratitude. "Thank you" she murmured sincerely.

Dumbledore smiled and waved it aside. "It was Poppy, not I. How do you feel?"

"Like an old woman," McGonagall admitted ruefully. "But the pain is gone."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You should be careful in what company you throw around these terms, Professor McGonagall. Some of us are twice your age!"

"Only until I turn eighty," she pointed out.

"You'll never catch me up though," he teased.

"Well every year I get older, you insist on doing the same. Damned unsportsmanlike I'd call it," sniffed Minerva disapprovingly.

Dumbledore beamed, deeply relieved to see his friend so much like her usual caustic self. "Grow as old as you like, my dear," he smiled impulsively, "but don't ever change." His hand covered hers where it lay on the table.

Perhaps it was the relief of familiar comfort in the midst of a time of cruel choices which made Dumbledore do what he did next. Minerva was leaning toward him, smiling. She was so close that he could see the little creases at the edges of her eyes deepen. Instinctively he leaned in to close the gap. McGonagall's eyes widened in shock behind the frames of her glasses, but she did not pull away. Time dragged as Dumbledore leaned closer, not entirely sure what he thought he was doing. He felt her breath warm against his lips. His nose brushed against hers.

_CRASH!_

Minerva pulled back with a cry and spun to face the window. There was nothing to be seen, but something had let fall several feathers on the window sill.

It took Albus a beat to collect himself, then he strode towards the window and flung it open. There was a sense of motion, the sound of flapping wings, and a cool breeze ruffled his beard. A bird, invisible save for its shadow, came to rest on the tabletop. Reaching out his hand Dumbledore pulled a small roll of parchment from the owl's unseen leg. The letter became visible as he moved it away from the table.

"From Alastor," he explained.

"He disillusioned an _owl?_" asked Minerva in disbelief.

"So it would appear. He is nothing if not diligent."

McGonagall looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but forbore out of respect for Dumbledore. The headmaster quickly scanned the note and frowned. "How very curious," he muttered.

"What is?" asked McGonagall, not really expecting a response. She didn't get one.

"I must deal with this now. I shall call back again later." And with that, he was gone.

* * *


End file.
